


Quiet. Calm. Peaceful. Isn’t it hateful?

by NotHereNJ (efficaceous)



Category: Me Before You (2016), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 13 minutes into the film I knew I needed to write the crossover, Crossover, Disabled Character, F/M, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Source compliant mentions of medically assisted suicide, Watch the author slowly descend into madness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-22 15:06:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15584601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/efficaceous/pseuds/NotHereNJ
Summary: Basically I started watching Me Before You and by 13 minutes in, I realized I had a terrific crossover on my hands. Now of course, I am off to finish the film, and then I intend to read the book, but you can see what's coming.





	1. Prologue: 24 months ago

Sherlock woke at Baker Street, for once quite content. Rain was pounding outside his window and he'd just solved- just? No, it'd been yesterday, a quick glance at the wall clock confirmed- a rather simple yet satisfying double homicide, slept for 15 hours, and if the chirping on his mobile was any clue, Lestrade had another case for him immediately. It wasn't likely to be another complex one, but needs must. After a quick shower and a sip from a cold-but-not-yet-mouldy cup of tea, he was out the door, long coat sweeping behind him. 

He never saw the motorbike that hit him, though after reviewing the camera footage, Mycroft was certain the driver had called out a warning at least once.


	2. John Watson: Shop Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets fired. Again. Harry, Clara, and other assorted Watsons appear, as does John's wooly jumper.

It was another picturesque fall morning in Musgrave; a soft sun shone through the occasional fluffy cloud, and a cool wind warned of the changing season. John Watson was wearing a blue and white polka-dotted jumper, and trying manfully to advise two housewives on which muffin would do the least harm to their waistlines. After convincing the women that cream filled would be less problematic than cream covered (because the inside is smaller, and thus there are fewer calories, _obviously_ ), and refreshing drinks for the few sitting customers, he returned to his cleaning tasks for the day. Once the door had closed behind the final guest, John realized his manager was standing right beside him with an ominous envelope and matching facial expression. John  knew the look; he had been on the receiving end a number of times since returned from Afghanistan, usually because his PTSD had acted up or he hadn't been quick-moving enough. But he'd rather thought the cafe had been different. His people skills hadn't been too damaged by his service, and his ability to cheerfully clean up any number of dirty dishes at the end of the shift had seemed a selling point. 

"It's ok, mate." John didn't want to put his boss through the trouble of a difficult conversation, he already knew how it would go, and the envelope at least looked well-stuffed, maybe three week's pay, instead of just two?

John took the long way home, and walked carefully with his cane, trying to organize his thoughts and steel himself for the inevitably shameful moment when he would tell his family about his latest job loss. By a stroke of luck, when he got home it was nearly supper time, and his Mum, Da, Grandad, Harry, and her small daughter Clara were all bustling around (or being bustled around) in the woefully undersized kitchen. His Da got a bit heated when he heard the news, but John knew it was only the man's anxieties about his own protracted unemployment and the family's dismal finances that provoked his sharp words. Harry carefully kept her eyes fixed on her plate, but John's Mum squeezed his shoulder, saying "John's a bright lad, he'll find something." He wished he felt so certain.

 


	3. Running in Circles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary encourages him to a. get fit b. think big. Both of which are quite impossible giving his own PTSD and post war injuries.

Fall wasn't just a threat anymore, John realized, as he leaned his bad leg against the discarded hurdle on the edge of the running track. He had worn a bright orange jumper (the better for the other runners to see, and thus avoid, him, he reasoned) but he should have brought mittens. And maybe a hat. With bobbles.

Mary came jogging up, in her full sports kit, from her expensive trainers to her compression tights, which looked simply amazing on her. Not that she cared, "They shaved another quarter of a second off my best time!" she'd crowed the first time she'd worn them.

"Run with me, babe!" she called, in the present. 

Despite John's ever-consistent demurrals and reminders of his bad leg, Mary never stopped trying to get him "back in fighting shape." This time, she pulled him by the hands and jogged backwards as he pointedly made a grab for his stick and managed a brisk walk-hop, walk-hop, pain shooting down the outside of his leg with every movement. 

"You just gotta get back out there," Mary said.

Did she mean on this track, or in a job, John wondered?

"What did you always want to be as a kid?" she asked.

"Surgeon." John bit out. That seemed to make an impact; Mary's face fell as she remembered that he couldn't be a surgeon anymore, not with the intermittent tremor in his dominant left hand.

"Right, well... anything else? Estate agent, maybe, yeah?"

John scoffed.

"Do we have to discuss this again, right now?"

"Well, you can't just mope around like your Da. All the best entrepreneurs, they fight their way back from  rock bottom!"

"I wouldn't say this is rock bottom, luv, and I'm not you." John tried not to be offended, she meant well, and she'd been there through his deployment and recuperation, but she just couldn't see his limitations the way he did. "I talk to ladies in shops, I wash dishes, and I make tea. Look, can't we slow down? My leg's fairly screaming." John stopped and leaned heavily on his cane, panting slightly. 

Mary jogged in place, still facing him, her expression clearly disappointed. She must have expected this little motivational speech to go over better. 

"I'm just saying, you're a handsome bloke. Put on a smile, and head back to the jobs center. And don't worry about our holiday. I'll pay." She winked, and then with a glance at her fancy sports watch and an air kiss in his direction, turned around and jogged off, leaving John alone on the track, slightly dismayed.

 


	4. John and Josiah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten points to Gryffindor if you can ID who Josiah is based on.

John goes to the jobs center and meets with his job coach, Josiah, a brunette man who somehow manages to pull off a blue knitted beret, despite being neither french nor a gondolier.

"In the past two weeks, John, we've tried the sheep shearing center-"

"-That was never a good idea to begin with, I told you, mate. They just kept bleating at me with those bloo-

"Blooms!" Josiah interrupted. "D'you like flowers?"

"Thanks, no..." John was a bit confused. 

"We've tried aesthetician. How'd that one go over, again?"

"It turns out that I am not to be trusted with beard oil. Particularly if said beard oil has been heating in the microwave for 4 minutes. But I was told the gentleman wouldn't need a skin graft, so that's good, right?"

Josiah stared at John a bit blankly, then nodded.

"I'm running out of options for you here, John."

"Josiah, please, I'll take anything. You know I don't give a sh-"

"Shadow boxing!" Josiah broke in again. "You should take up shadow boxing! It might do your leg a fair bit of good!"

"Yeah, alright, maybe. But seriously, I will do literally any job. So just, 'tap tap tap' on your little box and find me something, please?"

There was a long pause as Josiah peered closely at the screen.

"Oh. This is new in."

John tried to see the screen and failed.

"And it's not far from your home. But you might need to do something about your attire for this one."

John made a noise of confusion. His jumper today was a shade of lavender, with a few pink and white flecks. Very warm.

"Care and compationship for a disabled man," Josiah continued, ignoring John's perturbation.

"Needs someone to drive, feed, and assist. Six month, fixed-term contract, good money too."

John had a vision of himself, dressed in a white smock, spooning mush into the mouth a man who looked a good bit like Daniel Day-Lewis ( _Last of the Mohicans_ era, not _My Left Foot_ era, if John was being honest).

"It's actually excellent money. You should definitely apply, this is the third time they've tried to recruit. Seems like three's a good sign they're desperate."

Now John's mental fantasy had shifted to seeing himself, watching over a sleeping James McAvoy, reaching out to smooth back a lock of hair. 

Josiah interrupted John's daydream: "There's nothing on here about need skills or training, or even experience. Just up your alley then, John!"

Rather than taking that as a dig, John smiled. This might actually work!

 

 

 

 


	5. Are you feeling exposed?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'll be out of town for a day, so don't be afeared if there is no update tomorrow. I'm still here, already dreading how very long this may end up if I stick to 1 scene = 1 chapter.

John's mum was trying to help. He knew that. It's just that her idea of "business casual" seemed to be nearly identical to what John thought of as "office drone."

"I know it's not how you like to dress, luv, but this is what young people wear to get jobs these days. Isn't that right, Harry?"

John stood before the two women, dismayed. He was drowning in an oversized sport coat, strangling in a tight collar, and generally confused by the string tie. 

"Mum dressed me this way when I got my first job. That worked out alright."

"Just like this, Har? Or did your suit coat have massive padded 80's shoulders?" John joked.

"It served me very well, you two." John's Mum fussed with the sleeve length at John's wrists. "I guess you could just roll up the sleeves a wee bit; no one 'ed ever notice."

"I never thought I'd say this, but can I hear more from Harry, please?" 

"It shows that you're trying, at least," Harry volunteered.

She ruffled John's hair and gave him a kiss on the cheek. 

"They'd be lucky to have you, Mr. Men's Fashion Plate, 1983." She ducked out the room, giggling.

John eyed his mother. 

"Styles change, but smart is smart. And my Johnnie is a smart man." 

John faced himself in the full length mirror and shuddered. 


	6. How it upsets Mummy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, we're only 6 minutes into this film. *INFJ regrets embarking on ambitious project*  
> Ok, well we're now a whole 10 minutes in by the end of this chapter, and I am sorry to stop there but also NOT AT ALL SORRY because I am trying very hard to stay aligned with the original, keep characters in character, add some fun details, and also write well. Like it's my job. Bc it's kind of my job.

After a short bus ride, where John succeeded in not embarrassing himself by falling, hitting a small child with his stick, or pulling the 'stop requested' bell too early, he arrived at the gates of a rather imposing castle. It wasn't like he didn't know the castle was there: Musgrave Castle had been there since before the village had, properly. But aside from mentions during history lessons and a few unsold postcards in the chemists, it had never become _real_ to John. Until today.

He thanked the bus driver and carefully descended the vehicle's steps. Straightening his string tie, he set his shoulders and marched to the gate, where he was faced with a decidedly-modern call box. With one press of the button, the heavy wooden door swung open, as if by an unseen, waiting, hand. His necktie felt inordinately tight, but rather than risking dishevelment, John let it be.

Inside the main gate, John saw an array of flashy cars: a sportster, the requisite Land Rover, and a comparatively modest minivan. He realized the minivan must be modified for the patient's outings, doctor's visits, or whatever other needs the person had outside the walls of the castle.

The were two people at the front door, one a regal-looking woman, and the other a blonde woman wearing nursing scrubs. The blonde looked dismissively at John's stick as she departed. 

"Hah, I've a medical degree, and you're just a glorified-bedpan cleaner," John gloated, before realizing that he was now likely applying to be a bona fide bedpan cleaner. Oh how the mighty, and all that.

"You must be John Watson." Up close, the regal-looking woman was obviously just past middle age, and held a leather folder, and made no move to shake his hand. John smiled his assent, putting on his best 'Trust me with your disabled loved one' face.

"I'm Violet Vernet; do come in." John found himself smiling again, bobbing his head in what, to his everlasting shame, he realized was a very shoddy form of a bow, and followed.

Violet Vernet led John through the foyer, decorated with antique, but not fussy, furniture, into what was most likely a study. Or a drawing room. John had never quite got the hang of which room was what.

"Do you have any experience of caregiving?" Violet inquired as they sat on facing pale green couches.

"Ah, well not exactly, no. I've been more on the cutting them apart and then sewing them back together side."

John realized a look of horror was dawning on the woman's face. The string-tie felt like a noose around his neck.

"I mean to say, I'm sure I could learn it, and I am very comfortable with medical ... things." he finished lamely.

"Any first-hand experience with quadriplegia?"

"Uh, no." John cursed himself for not doing a rotation in Neurology, or even Physical Therapy. He had gone straight for general surgery, and then onto the battlefield. Knowing how to keep a man alive with the contents of your pockets wouldn't do much good here. "But," John recovered, "I am familiar with these types of injuries from medical school. How much motion has the patient retained?"

"We're talking about the complete loss of the legs, and very limited use of the arms and the hands. Would that bother you?" Violet maintained steady eye contact as she asked this, testing him for weakness. 

"Not as much as it would bother the patient, obviously." John joked. Seeing that familiar look of horror, or was it just distaste, he hurriedly apologized. "Sorry, battlefield joke and all that. I didn't... No, uh..." The tie was strangling him. He grabbed at it instinctively with his bad left hand, and with a cosmically mistimed twitch, yanked the sodding thing apart, sending one of the aglets shooting off into an expensive corner. 

Both John and Violet stared in the direction the aglet had gone, then by silent agreement returned to the conversation.

"Your previous employer says here that you are a 'warm, chatty, and life-enhancing presence, with a lot of potential left.'"

"Yes, I paid him." These hideous jokes kept falling out of his mouth without any input from his brain, and John cursed inwardly, resigned to the inevitable criticisms from his Da when he arrived home tonight still jobless.

Violet's eyes widened slightly, as John laughed weakly. She pointedly looked back to her prepared list of questions.

"So what do you want to do with your life, now?" Again, she maintained eye contact, but John's ears burned as he knew she was referring either to his leg or his medical discharge, 

"Sorry, um, at the moment, I've not got anything on." John stammered.

"Well, Mr. Watson, why should I employ you, rather than the previous candidate?"

John's face worked comically as he started a sentence, stopped, reconsidered, then closed his mouth.

"Really, you can't think of a single reason why I should employ you?"

This was bad. This was so bad. John's mind was a vast, empty desert, all sand and awkwardness.

"Well, no, yes, Mrs. Vernet, I'm, I'm a fast learner, and I'm never ill," (as he felt her eyes actually fall on his stick, this time), "and I only live on the other side of the castle, and I'm, I'm stronger than I look, even with the stick," (he dared her to challenge him on that), "and I just, I make a mean cup of tea. You know, there really isn't much that can't be solved by a decent cup of tea."

 _Don't say it_ , he told his brain.

"Not that I'm saying that your husband's paralysis, err, quadriplegia, can be solved by-"

"My husband?" Violet interrupted. 

They stared at each other for a moment, as John realized that his internal image, of an elderly man lying in bed, wasn't based in reality.

"It's my son." Violet said more softly.

"Your son," John repeated stupidly.

"William was injured in a road accident two years ago."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Would these **bloody** platitudes ever cease to come out of his mouth? "When I'm nervous I just said the most ridiculous things."

An adjacent door rattled and opened, and a man, balding young, and a bit too big for his waistcoat stepped into view. 

"I'm just popping out." As he spotted John on the couch, he appraised him so fully that John was fairly certain the man knew what John was planning to eat for lunch, his birthday, and his passport number. "Oh, another interviewee." The man's tone was deliberately casual. 

"Will you be back this evening?" Violet inquired frostily.

"I'll do my best. Why? Do you need me for something?"

"No, darling. Fine." The tension between the two was thick, but John couldn't begin to guess what it was about. The man didn't seem quite old enough to be a father of someone paralyzed in a road accident, let alone married to this - well, he _could_ be married to her, if that was his thing, and who was John to judge, and ...

"Hello. I'm Mycroft, Sherlock's brother." He extended a hand, and John shook it, endeavoring to smile appropriately. "John Watson." That explained a bit. Except...

"William Scott Sherlock Holmes." Violet clarified, noting John's confusion. "I named him William for a reason, but he has always prefered Sherlock, and Mycroft indulges him."

"Nice to meet you," Mycroft ( _Mycroft_? _Sherlock_?) said. "See you later, Mummy." With a quick kiss on his mother's head, the man departed and the atmosphere in the room warmed at least three degrees centigrade.

Violet's gaze returned to John, from his mangled bolo tie to his well-worn stick. 

"Would you like the job?"

Internally, John's jaw dropped, but he couldn't keep the shock from his eyes.

"Yes!"

"Can you start immediately?"

"Yes!" John nodded in enthusiasm.

"Good. Then let's go and meet William. Or Sherlock, I suppose you should also call him." She stood, and John grabbed his cane,  levering himself up from the couch as if in  a dream.

"Right, yeah. Okay. Um, sure."

As he followed her back into the foyer, she continued talking. John was sure she would have continued talking even if he hadn't followed her.

"The hours are eight am to five pm, Monday to Saturday. If, for whatever reason, you're running late or you need to leave early, please call and let me know."

John made a noise of agreement.

"I must stress," she continued, "that William should not be left alone for longer than fifteen minutes. And uh," Violet stopped in front of a white doorway, glancing at the remnants of John's tie, "You might want to wear something a bit more comfortable."

"Oh, yes, of course." Comfortable could be good, it could mean jumpers, he mused.

"This is the annex," Violet explained. "It was the stables before we had it adapted for William."

And she opened the door. 


	7. Beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences and role models.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our boys finally meet! Terribly auspicious, and all that. Still not sold on sad vs happy ending for this fic, so comment away and persuade me!  
> We are at 12 minutes!  
> I tried really hard to do some synthesis and magic Sherlock into the film dialogue, but I'm not very confident in how it came out.

The door swung open revealing a very modern, open floor plan studio, with a few enclosed rooms off of it. Floor-to-ceiling windows, plentiful skylights, and natural colors all came together to create an impression of bucolic restraint. To his left, John could see a kitchen area, with a massive center island and brushed stainless steel appliances. In the center of the space was a table that seemed well-aged, judging by both the patina on the wood and the myriad nicks in the wood clearly visible from a few feet away. It didn't seem to see much use currently, as there were four matching chairs all pulled in around it, with no room for a wheelchair or other assistive device to join in.

"Um, I'll give you a set of car keys and put you on the insurance." Violet continued to reel off details of his new employment as John worked very hard not to stare around like a fool. "Molly will show you how to use the ramp." 

She looked back at John, as if to confirm that he was indeed following her, literally and figuratively, so he put on another of his 'I'm-listening-carefully' smiles. It seemed to do the trick, as she carried on with the tour.

"Bathroom's in here." A door made from reclaimed wood (and likely costing more than John's family's entire year's heating bill) slid open on a track, revealing seemingly out-of-place white plastic handicapped equipment for bathing and toileting, as well as a deep, marble sink atop a tiled counter. 

Violet swept on, rummaging now in the kitchen cupboards, "Tea and coffee are here; you're welcome to help yourself, and there is always food in the fridge."

John stood, feeling a bit out of place, watching her open, then close the refrigerator. She also seemed unsettled in this 'converted stable', as if, maybe she didn't spend much time in here with her own son?

But she was still talking, had John missed anything?

"You and Sherlock can work out your level of interaction yourselves. Um, obviously... Well I would hope that you two could get on. He doesn't have friends, but it would be nice if he could think of you like one, rather than a paid professional."

'Who didn't have _any_ friends?' John wondered. Was the bloke that ill, that he couldn't talk, couldn't joke or have a laugh? How was he to be a friend to him them?

"Do you have any questions?" Clearly the tour was over, and Violet seemed anxious, though John couldn't parse quite why she would be.

"No,  no questions. Very thorough, thank you!" He was gushing. 'Stop fawning, you already got the job,' he told himself, then reached up to tug his lamely hanging string tie back to a semblance of order. He failed.

"Then let's introduce you to Sherlock. He should be dressed by now."

They walked to the other side of the studio, near another set of sliding doors, this pair equipped with frosted glass panels. Classical music could be heard very faintly emanating from the room.

Violet paused, saying "He has good days and bad days."

"Mrs. Vernet, I won't let you down," John assured her. 

With a firmly stated "Good," Violet knocked on the frosted glass doors, calling "I have someone to  meet you."

A young woman's voice spoke up, "Yes, he's decent now, Mrs. V."

Violet slid the doors open, moving almost silently on their tracks. 

"Sherlock, this is John Watson."

John was prepared and had plastered on Watson Smile #6, ( _Perfect for the Elderly or Infirm_ ). His face was frozen in rather a rictus as he took in the young man in front of him.

Sherlock sat in a modern wheelchair in front of a picture window, beyond which lay part of the castle's garden. He wore a navy blue pull over, had longish dark curls, and was unshaven. But the most striking thing about him was his eyes- they were like sea glass, John thought dreamily. Blue, but also green, and grey, and even-

"URHGRUGHUHRGUH..." The grunting groan seemed unending, taking over the small room, echoing off the walls and reverberating into John's ears. 

After a strained breath, the man's noise continued, unabated. "HRGUGHRGUHRGUHHR!"

"Sherlock." Violet said pointedly, though without surprise.

John's fake smile had slid off his face, leaving him gawping. A young woman dressed in blue scrubs just stared at the floor.

"William Scott Sherlock Holmes!"

"EURHUGERHUHRGGRUGHUHRGUH!" The man's face was utterly contorted with the effort of making such an unpleasant sound.

"Sherlock, please." His mother pleaded.

Drawing in another breath, instead of continuing the moan, the man's face relaxed into an ironic smile, as he asked "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John was entirely wrong-footed. 

"Sorry?"

"Which one was it? In Afghanistan or Iraq?" The man, Sherlock, persisted.

**"** Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you...?"

"How do you feel about the violin?"

"I'm sorry, wh, what?" John stammered.

 "I listen to the violin when I'm thinking and sometime I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential employees should know the worst about their employer going into things."

"Wait, back to Afghanistan, how did you know that?" He glared, rather fiercely at Violet. "Did Josiah at the Jobcentre tell you that? Because it's private info-"

"No, nothing so tedious," Sherlock interrupted. " I know you're an Army doctor, and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. You've got a family worried about you, but you won't ask your father for help, because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he's been out of work for 6? No, 9 months, and I know your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think? I'm Sherlock Holmes. Welcome to Musgrove Castle."

Helplessly, John looked first to the nurse, then to Violet for help against this onslaught of personal details.

She simply shrugged. "He's always like this with new people."

"Does he have a name?" Sherlock addressed his mother, managing to indicate John with an insouciant tilt of his chin.

"John. I'm John Watson." 

"John Watson, you appear to have lost a fight with your tie."

John grasped at the tattered remnants, finally pulling the thing off and stuffing it in a pocket.

"You're a bad man, Mr. Holmes," the nurse gently scolded. "I'm Molly Hooper." She extended her hand and John shook it, still dazed.

"Well, I'll leave you to get on. Mr. Watson, Molly will talk you through Sherlock's routines and equipment."

Sherlock bristled. "Have I turned invisible? You don't have to talk across me, Mummy. My brain isn't paralyzed. Yet." He positively smirked at John as he said this, leaving John burning with embarrassment as understanding of the barb sunk in.

Violet simply turned and departed, wordlessly, leaving John, the nurse Molly, and Sherlock in a circle.


	8. I'm disabled; look, I've got a wheelchair!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's do some math. If the film is 97 minutes long, and on average each chapter covers 2 minutes of film, this will be a very, very, obscenely long fic. My goal is actually to bring it in around 40 chapters, but depending on how it all ends (hint, hint) it may get longer as I go freestyle.
> 
> Also I lost track of my verb tenses part way through this chapter and then I tried to fix them and it seems off still.  
> (End 13:07)

"I'm John." John said again, lamely. His brain had gone quite empty in light of all the familial drama. He tried to smile, but his seemingly-endless stock of pat facial expressions was empty and he managed to move his face into something that is not a smile.

"Yes. You said that already." Sherlock drawled.

John's brows worked manfully as he considers and discards a number of rude responses, finally settling on "Shall I make us all a cup of tea?"

No one could object to tea at a time like this. He quite needed one himself.

* * *

 

"Wrench! I need my wrench!" James Watson stalked into the tiny kitchen where his father, wife, daughter, and granddaughter all scattered to get out of his way. 

"Mum! Did you turn down the gas on my veg?" Harry shouted, even though her mother was at the small sink beside her, washing dishes.

"That's the cutlery drawer, James!" Elizabeth Watson abandoned the dishes, ignored her (wayward) daughter, and came over to try and help her husband sort himself out. "And you're getting oil everywhere!"

"Everything will be soggy at dinner!" Harry's complaints continued.

"Yeah, well things turn up in strange places in this house!" James retorted to his wife.

Suddenly, a small but quite loud voice cut through all the noise. 

"Uncle John! Uncle John!" This shout was followed by a short child crowned with blond hair hurtling herself across the kitchen, neatly dodging James and Elizabeth, and being swept up in John's arms as both laughed. 

The kitchen came to a standstill, as all the adults turned to look at John, who held Clara in his arms.

"You got it, didn't you?" Harry exclaimed with disbelief.

(John wouldn't let that skepticism hurt. He would not.)

"Uh... yeah." John beamed with pleasure at being able to bear such good news.

The hubbub started up again, as his mum, da, Harry, and Granddad all spoke over each other, this time tinged with relief rather than edgy stress.

Clara rubbed her nose against John's. "Good job, Uncle John."

"John Watson, working at Musgrave Castle. Wonders will never cease." These disbelieving comments from Harry were beginning to wear on John.

"It's not the castle, Har. It's the - well, it's really a converted stable."

"Sit down, lad, and tell us all about yer first day." John's Granddad patted the table and John slid into a seat, still holding Clara.

 


	9. You just wrote "still has trust issues."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soldier on, as one does.  
> My thanks for the very kind comments. They literally keep me writing, when it feels a bit overwhelming. <3  
> Today's chapter goes from 13:10 ish to 15:50

As John approached the castle for his first real day of work, he saw the three vehicles from his visit the day before, as well as an obviously excessively expensive Mercedes  _Geländewagen._

Letting himself in with the new set of keys Mrs. Vernet had entrusted to him, he wandered into the former stables, looking for his - his ward? His employer? His charge?

Rather than seeing Sherlock, John could only hear the bass of some slow, stertorous music playing through the translucent glass.

"Okay," a not-unfriendly voice called to him, what was this nurse's name again?

John met her in the kitchen area, holding his orange lunchbox (matching his jumper) and coat against his chest with one arm, the other holding his cane.

"This tells you pretty much everything you need to know." Molly gave him a wan smile, indicating a binder stuffed full of papers. "Now, I do most of the personal care," She uses air quotes around the phrase 'personal care', which John understood to mean excretory functions. That had to be pleasant. She continued, "There's a timetable here so you can see what he has, and when."

As John perused the spreadsheet she had indicated, something jumped out to him.

"I have to handle drugs?" This shouldn't have been a surprise, but it had been a few years since anyone had trusted him with anything so- so life-or-death. It was daunting to have that kind of responsibility handed back to him casually. 

"Blood pressure meds to raise it, in the morning when he gets up. Anti-spasm tablets, four times a day to control-"

"Let me guess, to control muscular spasms?" John interjected.

"Just so." Molly continued going through the well-stocked medicine cabinet, explaining not just what each medication was for, (John knew most of that already) but how often they should be given, as well as what to look for in Sherlock's behavior that would indicate he was in pain.

"He'll never tell you, the proud git. But you can give him pretty much anything in here. Try not to give him sleeping pills just to shut him up though. He figures it out by the morning and get's a bit, you know, irritable." She giggled, and John grinned, giving a pointed glance back at the glass doors.

"Well, more irritable." Molly clarified. "It's a lot to remember, but it's all written down. And y'know, he knows what's what. Down to the milligram, though he may deny it."

"I have some experience with this stuff, though it has been a while." John _wanted_ to give his full credentials, show off to Molly, demonstrate that he knew enough to keep out of trouble. He decided to leave it at that, rather than saying something that could get him in trouble later.

"And you've got my number." Molly said, then blushed, clarifying. "Not my number, not like that, of course," she hurriedly explained. "Most of my other patients are nearby, so I'm never far away, if you need me." The blush deepened. "For Sherlock. If Sherlock ever needs me."

"Of course, I understand." John reassured her amiably. 

"Do you have any questions?" Molly was halfway into her coat already as she asked this perfunctory question, but John did have one urgent one.

"What if he needs to- um, use the facilities? I haven't done that type of work in quite a long time and-"

"-No, don't worry." Molly cut his worried question off. "You're not here for any of the physical stuff."

Would people EVER stop looking at his stick and thinking he was on the edge of being paralyzed himself? Rather than attacking her for an obviously well-intentioned remark simply because he had been on the receiving end of a non-stop torrent of them in recent days, he asked what had really been on his mind since the day before. 

"What am I here for, then?"

"To cheer him up, I guess." With that last bit of non-helpful guidance, Molly departed. 

John stowed away his lunch box and hung his coat on the hook. 

At some point during this process, Sherlock's doors had opened. The man himself was just a dark outline, facing out the big bay window into the misty landscape that surrounded the castle.

John walked past a few times, trying to get up his nerve to say- to say what, exactly? How was he to cheer this stroppy fellow?

As John paced, Sherlock rolled his eyes. It was one of the very non-verbal forms of showing irritation he had left, and he hoped this new aide wouldn't force him to employ it incessantly. But he very much doubted that.

He could hear the steps stop for a moment, and hoped against hope that John would go find something else to do. 

John brushed his thighs and determinedly marched into the room. There went the eye-roll again.

"Hello."

Sherlock shook his head slightly, but deigned to respond.

"Hello."

"So I thought we could go out this afternoon," John plunged into conversation.

"Where did you have in mind?" Was that a hint of positivity in Sherlock's tone? If so, John would capitalize on it.

"Well, I was told you had a car that was adapted for wheelchair use. I was thinking about..." Here John's voice trailed off. He hadn't really gotten further than the mental image of loading Sherlock into the car, and manfully gripping the steering wheel himself.

"And you thought a drive might be good for me." There had been no positivity, no hopefulness or agreement. This had been a verbal trap. "A breath of fresh air." The cutting tone was in full force now.

"What do you usually do?" John asked timidly.

"I don't do anything, Mr. Watson. I sit. I just about exist. I visit my crumbling mind palace, and take stock of what new mental declines have taken place since I last checked, yesterday."

John wasn't quite sure what a 'mind palace' was, particularly given that they were in sight of a literal castle, but he forged on.

"Okay. Well, I could get you your computer?"

"Have you found a good quad support group I could join?" John now knew not to trust this tone of voice, innocent though it sounded. _Here there be dragons_ , and all that.

"Quads'R'us? The tin wheels?" 

John's face had fallen a bit, but he had invaded Afghanistan.

"Perhaps we could get to know each other a bit." Although John had now come around to the side of Sherlock's chair, and was now in his line of sight, Sherlock didn't make eye contact or try to turn his head the limited amount he could manage. "Because then you could tell me what you do like to do." He cleared his throat, trying to dispel the pleading note that had crept in. "Maybe."

Sherlock turned his chair around so he faced this new person his mother had forced upon him, this _John_. 

John had no idea what was about to happen.

"I know all about you, Mr. Watson."

"Yes. How did you know all that yesterday?"

"I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. But your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Bart's, so army doctor. Obvious. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists: you've been abroad but not sunbathing. The limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic: wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan: Afghanistan or Iraq."

John's jaw dropped. "You said I had a therapist?"

"You've got a psychosomatic limp. Of course you've got a therapist," Sherlock scoffed. "Then there's your brother. Your phone—it's expensive, email enabled, MP3 player. But your jumper is homemade and those shoes are past well-worn, ready to give out. It's a gift, then. Scratches—not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. "

 **"** Did I get anything wrong?"

"Spot on, extraordinary!" John exclaimed.

"I didn't expect to be right about everything," Sherlock mused.

"Not everything," John said. "I don't have a brother. Just a sister."

"A sister. It's always something." Sherlock let his eyes close and his head tilt back against the headrest. "My mother says you're chatty."

"Yeah." John agreed.

"Can we strike a deal, then? Whereby you are very un-chatty around me? I already know quite enough about you, Mr. Watson. I don't want to clutter up my brain with useless facts about how you take your tea, or where you got dinner last night, or your very athletic girlfriend."

John didn't quite know what to say. Or do. 

"Okay. Well, yeah. I'll just be in the kitchen, making no noise, pretending I don't exist. Unless you, you know, need anything."

"Lovely." Sherlock nearly whispered.

John stepped out of the room, as promised, and quietly slid the doors shut.


	10. White as death, mouth like a crimson wound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Likely no update tomorrow as I have an over full day planned.  
> Today's chapter runs from 15:50 - 17:30  
> Please do let me know if there any additional tags or warnings I ought to be adding.

He felt like he had been - not punched- stabbed in the gut. He knew what a stabbing felt like, like shame and like dry air and the smell of blood. 

John curled one arm protectively around his stomach, retreating, hunched over until he found a bit of wall to hold him up.

Why had he taken this bloody job? How was he meant to be a friend, a companion, or even any form of caregiver to this man who clearly wanted neither caring nor giving?

The money. He had taken this job because it paid so well.  Because his family so desperately needed his income. 

And as he would be getting paid regardless of his level of interaction with _his nibs_ , John decided he might as well make himself at home.

He settled on a stool at that capacious kitchen island and began to page through the binder of instructions.

It certainly was ... complete. Everything was covered, from abscesses and bed sores to drug overdoses.

'Not that that's very likely,' John mused.

The more he read, the more his eyes began to cross. He hadn't studied a serious tome like this in years, maybe not since medical school. Everything else had been about learning on the job, 'each one, teach one,' and all that. But he persevered, until he finished the entire binder, from 'arrhythmia' to 'yeast infection'.

He glanced at the clock. Surely it was nearly end-of-day. 

It was 12:30.

"So, how was he?" John nearly jumped; Molly had some in through a side entrance, startling him. "Has he done his Uri Geller impression yet, or just stuck with FDR? My very first day he told me 'When you reach the end of your rope, tie a knot in it and hang yourself.' Had to look that one up when I got home." She laughed lightly.

"Ah, he's fine." John smiled tightly. He. Needed. This. Job.

"Okay. Well, you can take lunch now. Me and Mr. H have a few personal things to take care of at this time of day."

With a very pale blush suffusing the tips of his ears, John took the cue and grabbed his lunch from the refrigerator. He ate along on a bench in the castle gardens, carefully well away from Sherlock's big bay window.

As he finished his thin sandwich and thermos of tea, he replied to a text from Harry. 

_Still a disaster? Xx_

_Yup._

* * *

 

His days fell into a routine. His alarm would jar him from sleep, he'd dress, grab a slice of toast, and catch the bus to the castle. Every morning he opened the door to the former-stables with a sense of potential, hopeful optimism. 

Every day, with just one glance, Sherlock made him feel about as big as an ant. And less important.

They would spend the day avoiding each other by inches, John reading or trying to text on his phone. Sherlock- well, Sherlock didn't seem to do anything except stare out his window.  John wasn't even sure he was awake most of the day.

On John's 9th day, Molly helped him out of his coat when he arrived, saying "Not a good day, today."

He persisted. He offered a cheery greeting each morning. Tea throughout the day. Sherlock didn't even grant him a word of response. It began to feel almost childish, like he was getting the silent treatment from Clara. Clara was four. Sherlock was a grown man. This was absurd.

* * *

 

Another day, another feeling of shock as his alarm cut through a nightmare of camouflage and gunfire, acrid smoke and bland meals.

* * *

 

"Try bringing flowers, love. Maybe he needs some fresh things to look at." John's mum advised.

These Sherlock granted an archly raised eye brow, followed by a look of disgust. John ended up giving them to Mary that night. She was effusively grateful. 

* * *

 

It wasn't as if John could literally do nothing all day. Sherlock still had to eat, even if he did decline two out of every three meals John prepared.

Who didn't like beans on toast?

But the mundanity of the routine began to affect John. One morning, as he was feeding Sherlock large spoonfuls of a rich soup, he got distracted and spilled a full tablespoon of hot soup down Sherlock's crisply pressed shirt. While he couldn't feel the pain of a burn, the indignity alone was enough to have Sherlock rolling his eyes at John's flustering over him wiping, drying, and eventually use a hair dryer to freshen his clothing. 

Un. In. Ter. Min. Able.

 


End file.
